Read Online Having Everything Right by Robert Michael; Kim; Pyle Stafford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Michael; Kim; Pyle Stafford
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through. Glad you came out. Tea?â She gestures toward a mobile home hunched low into the ground, with a drift of gray leaves piled around the door.
Inside, bookshelves cover the walls.
âIâve read them many times.â Her hand sweeps the room. âThe kind of snow we get is good for the mind.â She turns around once and sits down. Her chair used to be red. Now itâs covered with a faded quilt. âIâm kind of the unofficial historian of this place. Iâve got the books and got the time. People trust me with things, and I take care of them. Been to the museum? Sure you have! Thatâs when I asked you to stop by. Have a seat!â We face each other across a formica table. Through the window, tiny aspen leaves flicker in sunlight.
âYou said there is a tribe of people,â I say, âliving in Joseph Canyon.â
âOh yes, the hippies. Wanted to get away, I guess, and thatâs away! No one sees them, but everyone knows theyâre there. And you know, they found something. Got to digging around, disturbing one of the campsites, you know, and came up with a little stone carved to the shape of a bear. They kept it for a while, then got to feeling guilty I guess. Got to feeling bad about digging it up. So they took it back to where theyâd found it. Tied a note to it. Left it there. My friend found that. He brought it to me.
âIt was a bear carved out of basalt, a little one curled up asleep. It was a magic thing in your hand. You wanted to hold it forever. You wanted to hold it, and at the same time it didnât feel right to hold it. It belonged to the ground, to them, you know, to the people we drove away.
âI kept it for a while, then I sent it to the state museum, with a note asking them to give me some information on it and send it back. I thought they might have something similar, or some book that could tell me about it. But you know, they never sent it back. They never even wrote back. I got the idea they didnât trust me with it. Weâre just country people, you know. Left me bitter, Iâm afraid. Left a bad taste in my mouth. Iâd go bury it in the ground again, if I could.â
The kettle boiled, and she got up to shut off the stove. Wind pushed wide the flimsy door, framed in aluminum, and sunlight burst across the rug covered with dog hair. Grace stood a moment with the kettle steaming in her hand.
âThings get lost, but then things get to be stories, I guess. And stories stick to people like cockleburs.â She left the door open, held up a cup. âYou take it black?â
D ECEMBER M EDITATION AT C AMP P OLK C EMETERY
You have to listen real hard to hear anything at all: a little snow ticking down through juniper trees; the click of the chain around a family plot flexing in the cold. Wind. You hear it quite a while before it arrives. Then the eastern half of your face might just as well be stone.
Ten years ago I was here to do a formal study of the cemetery layout. As part of my folkloristic fieldwork, I made a systematic ramble of thirteen central Oregon cemeteries, stepping respectfully in the August dust of memorial plots at Grizzly, Antelope, Ashwood, Grandview, Madras, Hay Creek, Bakeoven, Warm Springs, Simnashio, Camp Polk, and three without names. I wanted to know how the adjacent communities of theliving marked, laid out, and maintained these trim little cities of stone and sage. I wanted to know how many gravemarkers listed family relations, military ranks, professions, hobbies, wise proverbs, and the verses of grief or hope. I wanted to know how these stretches of sacred ground were isolated from the forest or cattle range surrounding them: wood fence, iron gate, barbed wire, poplar tree square. On the main street of how many towns would there be a sign for the âCemetery: 2 milesâ? How many plots would be local secrets tucked away up a side canyon?
I wanted to seek and listen, to map and
Inside, bookshelves cover the walls.
âIâve read them many times.â Her hand sweeps the room. âThe kind of snow we get is good for the mind.â She turns around once and sits down. Her chair used to be red. Now itâs covered with a faded quilt. âIâm kind of the unofficial historian of this place. Iâve got the books and got the time. People trust me with things, and I take care of them. Been to the museum? Sure you have! Thatâs when I asked you to stop by. Have a seat!â We face each other across a formica table. Through the window, tiny aspen leaves flicker in sunlight.
âYou said there is a tribe of people,â I say, âliving in Joseph Canyon.â
âOh yes, the hippies. Wanted to get away, I guess, and thatâs away! No one sees them, but everyone knows theyâre there. And you know, they found something. Got to digging around, disturbing one of the campsites, you know, and came up with a little stone carved to the shape of a bear. They kept it for a while, then got to feeling guilty I guess. Got to feeling bad about digging it up. So they took it back to where theyâd found it. Tied a note to it. Left it there. My friend found that. He brought it to me.
âIt was a bear carved out of basalt, a little one curled up asleep. It was a magic thing in your hand. You wanted to hold it forever. You wanted to hold it, and at the same time it didnât feel right to hold it. It belonged to the ground, to them, you know, to the people we drove away.
âI kept it for a while, then I sent it to the state museum, with a note asking them to give me some information on it and send it back. I thought they might have something similar, or some book that could tell me about it. But you know, they never sent it back. They never even wrote back. I got the idea they didnât trust me with it. Weâre just country people, you know. Left me bitter, Iâm afraid. Left a bad taste in my mouth. Iâd go bury it in the ground again, if I could.â
The kettle boiled, and she got up to shut off the stove. Wind pushed wide the flimsy door, framed in aluminum, and sunlight burst across the rug covered with dog hair. Grace stood a moment with the kettle steaming in her hand.
âThings get lost, but then things get to be stories, I guess. And stories stick to people like cockleburs.â She left the door open, held up a cup. âYou take it black?â
D ECEMBER M EDITATION AT C AMP P OLK C EMETERY
You have to listen real hard to hear anything at all: a little snow ticking down through juniper trees; the click of the chain around a family plot flexing in the cold. Wind. You hear it quite a while before it arrives. Then the eastern half of your face might just as well be stone.
Ten years ago I was here to do a formal study of the cemetery layout. As part of my folkloristic fieldwork, I made a systematic ramble of thirteen central Oregon cemeteries, stepping respectfully in the August dust of memorial plots at Grizzly, Antelope, Ashwood, Grandview, Madras, Hay Creek, Bakeoven, Warm Springs, Simnashio, Camp Polk, and three without names. I wanted to know how the adjacent communities of theliving marked, laid out, and maintained these trim little cities of stone and sage. I wanted to know how many gravemarkers listed family relations, military ranks, professions, hobbies, wise proverbs, and the verses of grief or hope. I wanted to know how these stretches of sacred ground were isolated from the forest or cattle range surrounding them: wood fence, iron gate, barbed wire, poplar tree square. On the main street of how many towns would there be a sign for the âCemetery: 2 milesâ? How many plots would be local secrets tucked away up a side canyon?
I wanted to seek and listen, to map and
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